


Treasure Hunters: The Ring of Fortuna

by CrazyPierrsonMan



Category: Tomb Raider & Related Fandoms, Tomb Raider (Video Game)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Adventure & Romance, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, M/M, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-26
Updated: 2017-08-26
Packaged: 2018-12-20 05:25:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11914131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrazyPierrsonMan/pseuds/CrazyPierrsonMan
Summary: What's a day in the life like as a treasure-hunting gun-for-hire? Find out when a rich and mysterious businessman commissions Larson and Pierre to find the fabled Ring of Fortuna, said to be hidden in the caverns of Tabuk, Saudi Arabia.





	Treasure Hunters: The Ring of Fortuna

Sat in a plush, comfy leather chair, Pierre was trying his hardest to keep an even face and tone, but irritation gnawed at the back of his mind and his brow kept crossing in annoyance. Keeping calm was difficult, of course, when the formal attire he was donning was colored hot pink and covered in sparkles. His last good tuxedo has gotten ruined in the car chase with Lara Croft in Rome, and this was the first job in ages that had a client of a status high enough to warrant dressing up.

Larson had gone out of his way to purchase for his lover a new tux, but picked the cheapest one he could buy… and Pierre suspected that it may have just been Larson’s way of seeing the Frenchman in clothing that the cowboy liked. At any rate, with such generosity, how could Pierre refuse?

The two made an odd pair at the moment, but Mr. Adrian LaChantel, one of America’s highest-grossing entrepreneurs, didn’t seem to mind at all. In fact, the dark-skinned man’s eyes seemed to rove…  _appreciatively_ across Pierre’s sparkle-clad form. Another reason as to why it was hard to remain as calm as possible, but surely Mr. LaChantel would act appropriate.

Looking about the room revealed a sophisticated yet minimalistic office space; it was, of course, LaChatel’s private office in his summer mansion. While the lights were dim, casting moody shadows across the ceiling, the walls were adorned with pictures of beautiful men, all featuring dark hair on their heads and chins.

Glancing down at the floor again, Pierre restrained himself from shaking his head at the choice of carpet—mauve, soft, and a bit shaggy. It almost seemed out of place, but it had been a long time since Pierre had done interior decorating, so what did he know?

Exhaling sharply through his nose, Pierre tried his best to bring himself out of his head and into the present, and refocus on Mr. LaChantel’s high-pitched, dulcet voice as he finished explaining the mission again for Larson’s sake.

“…Do you get it  _now,_  Mr. Conway? The Ring of Fortuna. It’s in a tomb somewhere within Tabuk, Saudi Arabia. And before you ask, it was moved from its original resting place Rome. I’ve managed to track it down. You and your…  _fine_  associate,” he paused to regard Pierre appreciatively, “need to retrieve it from me.  _Alright?”_  Mr. LaChantel punctuated the end of his sentence with a  _huff,_  and glanced up at two men clad in black suits—his ‘personal assistants,’ he’d called them. Even Larson knew that that was shorthand for ‘bodyguard.’ They were tall, imposing, and somehow seemed to be made of more muscle than both Larson and Pierre combined.

Larson scratched his head and shrugged. “I dunno. Boss’s usually better at this stuff. Fortuna’s Ring is a cave? We can find it, but there’s a lotta caves in the world.”

Mr. LaChantel sighed in irritation, leaning forward and pinching the bridge of his nose. “Why is  _why_ I have told you its location. Tabuk. And no, before you ask me  _again,_  I am not saying  _‘two book.’_ Let us move on from that. Mr. Dupont?”

Pierre swallowed the lump in his throat before clearing it, and replied, “Monsieur LaChantel, we shall find this artifact for you. It shall bring your companies continued good fortune,  _non?_ So long as the price is right,  _s’il vous plaît_ , it can be located.”

It was then that Mr. LaChantel stood, his long dreadlocks sweeping off his shoulders onto his back. “I trust you’ll be able to do this for me, Pierre,” he purred. It was Pierre and Larson’s turns to stand up, and Pierre grabbed LaChantel’s hand firmly; their new employer took his time letting go of Pierre’s hand, and ignored Larson’s extended arm in favor of motioning toward the door.

Larson returned his arm to his side and huffed, following Mr. LaChantel and Pierre out of the office, with the two bodyguards close behind. LaChantel smiled and rubbed Pierre’s left shoulder encouragingly. “I’ll provide transportation, Mr. Dupont. Don’t be a stranger, now,” the rich man said.

“Monsieur LaChantel, you will not regret hiring us,” Pierre replied uncomfortably, as he took a few steps back.

LaChantel laughed. “Oh please, do call me  _Adrian._  It sounds better when you’re getting to know someone  _intimately,_  doesn’t it?”

At this, LaChantel gave a hearty  _whap_  straight to Pierre’s ass.

And all hell broke loose.

Larson was shouting and spewing threats as he lunged for LaChantel, fists balled; LaChantel called for his ‘assistants’ with a smug smile, and the taller of the pair stepped in to block Larson’s assault; which led to Larson attempting to turn his attack on the  _bodyguard…_

Pierre was able to diffuse it all by grabbing Larson from behind and attempting to pull backward—it didn’t go so well, considering Larson’s size compared to him—but it was enough for him to send a signal to his companion that this was not the time nor the place.

As Pierre whispered a song in French to Larson, his tried and true method for trying to calm his lover down, LaChantel connected the pieces. Smoothing out the coat of his suit, he looked up, brushing some dreadlocks back into place on his back.

“Well! I certainly did wonder why you two were a package deal. The job is still on, and before you ask,  _yes,_  your pay is still the same. But Mr. Dupont,” he said, staring straight into Pierre’s brown eyes.

“Do let me know if you ever tire of being the lover of a buffoon like Mr. Conway.”

And with that, the pair were escorted out of Adrian LaChantel’s office.

 

***

 

“It’s just—I don’t like this job and I don’t like him!” Larson groaned loudly, arms shooting in the air. It was early dawn and the treasure hunters had scarce time to prepare before the private jet that LaChantel had sent for them arrived. It would have been quite a conspicuous scene had they been booked at a hotel as per the pair’s norm, but thankfully their client had the sense to move the men, and their belongings, to a lavish spare room in his guest house—with, Larson had noted sourly, two separate beds (Though they had, of course, elected to sleep together in only one.)—and morning had arrived without a hitch.

“Larson, please, this will pay well,” Pierre attempted to reason once more, finding himself pleased at the relative silence of the jet interior. Pierre watched Larson lower his arms and cross them as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “You have the right to be angry. I did not wish to have my  _derrière…_  assaulted so. You are still my man, and I do not tire of you such as Monsieur LaChantel had implied.” He reached over and made a grab for Larson’s right hand, which Larson released from its seat in his left elbow.

“ _Comprends?_ ” Pierre asked, staring into his companion’s hazel eyes.

“Yeah, yeah,  _comprends,_  Boss,” Larson admitted. Continuing, he proclaimed, “But I still don’t think it’s right for him to treat ya like that, especially since he knows yer mine.”

“It shall be no concern of his. We will get our money, be all the richer for it, and continue on where our life takes us.  _Oui?”_

Larson nodded and sighed inaudibly, looking over toward the window. Pierre, on his end, thought of engaging his companion, but no change of subject came to mind, leading to a silent, yet somehow uneasy ride toward their destination.

 

***

 

The pilot landed the jet in a clearing close to the foot of the mountain the men would have to scale. Larson thanked her, and Pierre assured her that they’d radio in once the ring was in their possession. As wordless as she had been the entire flight—which honestly kinda freaked Larson out—the pilot nodded. Without further incident, the jet took off as soon as the treasure hunters and their supplies were safely off the vehicle.

The sun beat down on the two as they began their journey. The hike began easily enough, with a trek sloping gently upward, leading to an array of massive boulders split in half, evidently fallen from an earthquake long ago. They seemed to tower above the pair, and required careful navigation through shattered stone and broken crags. In particular, Pierre kept on the lookout for local fauna, not wishing to use any medical supplies that they didn’t have to.

After the stones were long gone, their next journey was up to the first plateau that LaChantel’s map detailed. It was here that the pair decided to take a small break. They shrugged off their backpacks, taking a moment to catch their breath, and soon after take in the sights down below; from where they stood, looking directly down was more boulders, sharp stalagmites lining the floor of a drop that neither of them wanted to contemplate. Beyond, they could see desert stretched out for miles. Pierre remarked it was a beautiful sandy color, much like Larson’s hair; to which Larson retorted that it looked ‘smart ‘n mysterious,’ just like his French-kisser.

After they’d had decidedly enough teasing one another, Pierre indicated to his partner that they needed to continue their journey, and both begrudgingly slung their packs in their rightful places again, and moved toward the cliff face that they would have to scale. It was a long and rocky journey to the top, but thankfully it would be eased by Pierre’s precious grappling rope. In truth, he’d had enough trying to compete with Lara Croft’s ideals of thrill-seeking, death-defying climbing. After the incident with Natla Technologies, one of the first things Pierre had bought was several different grapples with sturdy ropes, hopefully to last them awhile.

Larson, this time, elected to attach the grapple, and it dug its claws into the stony ground above. Tugging once, twice, and then starting the climb, Larson’s forearm muscles flexed tightly as he began to scale the cliff, feet finding footholds where they could. Pierre soon followed beneath.

While traveling on foot for a job, the pair usually said nothing until a clear downtime could be found. At the present, they also required additional silence of themselves and each other to concentrate on successful scaling and, of course, not falling. It seemed to be working well enough. Looking up to spot new footholds and possible hazards; glancing down to be sure their feet were landing in the right spot; and all the while holding the rope for dear life and not looking at the drop that could potentially spell their imminent doom.

It was long. It was arduous. But eventually, the top was in sight. One after another, the treasure hunters pulled up and onto the next plateau. The cave wasn’t far now; Pierre detached the grapple and coiled the rope, stashing it in his backpack before carrying on. A second break was in order after the long climb up top; Pierre had no need to communicate this to Larson, as the cowboy had already dropped his backpack down, his rear planted on the dusty ground. Pierre chose to keep his pack on, remembering how hard he had to convince himself to pick it back up hours ago.

The land up here was flat and smooth, coming across only a few small rocks here and there across the ground. It was almost as if it was… intentionally cleared by someone. Or  _something._  It always seemed as though supernatural forces were at work when it came to artifacts like this, and Pierre didn’t want to even think about it, let alone broach the subject to his companion. Larson sighed through the corner of his mouth before grabbing his backpack and nodding to Pierre, the pair heading onward across the flat land until at long last, in the light of the setting sun, they could see it.

A cave opened like the maw of a great serpent, inviting the treasure hunters to enter and let it swallow them whole, a meal for a beast of insatiable hunger. Larson gulped, glancing over at his lover, only to find him standing with his usual unblinking confidence. Shutting his eyes tight, Larson took a deep breath, exhaled, and opened his eyes again. For the first time in hours, he spoke, his voice cracking a little from disuse.

“S-so, uh, Boss. Let’s get this over with ‘n charge right in! I’m down for it if you are,” he declared.

Pierre turned his head toward Larson and shook his head in response. “ _Mon amour,_  I am weary. I will need rest. You will as well. Let us set up camp here for the night,  _oui?_ ”

Larson’s shoulders slackened, physically relaxing to the response he’d received. “You betcha, Boss. Let’s get this set up and me and Monsieur can have a good night’s sleep, right?”

Pierre chuckled, taking off his backpack for the last time of the day. Their small pop-up tent would be easy to erect, dinner would be simple prepackaged meals, and Pierre had even bought some magazines in town to unwind with. The hardest part of the night would be making a fire—and even then, he knew that Larson would look forward to lightening his backpack by taking the firewood out of it.

In the morning, they would hunt again. But for now, a much-needed sleep.

 

***

 

Pierre straightened his jacket while Larson stood up from his spot crouched on the floor, wiping his mouth on his wrist. Sunlight filtered in through holes in the cavern’s ceiling, filling the damp cave with patches of brightness. Nonetheless, the darkness required magnesite flares to be lit—and they were, in short order—and waiting in the hand of each man. Larson sniffled for a moment, staring at the darkness leading ever downward. If nothing else, at least the cave was linear; some gaps to clear, a wall to climb, and stalagmites to look out for, but otherwise it looked like a pretty straightforward path.

Continuing onward, well-exercised legs trotting across a natural dirt path, the pair wound up at yet another gap. Careful observation revealed a small outcropping near the bottom of the drop, too small for boot-clad heels to safely traverse, even with slow movement and backs to the wall—but just large enough for fingers to grip and shimmy across.

Pierre took a moment to assess the depths of the gap by tossing his flare in. The light fell, slowly disappearing out of sight until it was nothing but a speck among the pit’s bottom. Pierre shut his eyes and took a deep breath, before exhaling and reopening them. Turning to Larson, he shook his head and pointed at the ledge. “There is only one way over,” he said simply, with Larson grunting in agreement.

Dropping his own flare, Larson chose to go first; he made his way over toward the gap and sat down, legs dangling off the edge. Reaching out, he firmly gripped the outcropping with his left hand and quickly scooted his rear off into the abyss, before grabbing the ledge with his right hand. His feet hung slack as his arm muscles were pushed to their limit, supporting the entirety of his weight. Grunting a bit in exertion, Larson began to shimmy slowly over, right hand moving forward, then left. As he watched the ordeal, truthfully Pierre’s heart was fluttering with anxiety; there was the potential of Larson’s arms giving out on him before he made it to the other side, or possibly an impassibly large gap in the stone, or even the entire thing collapsing. These racing thoughts did nothing to assuage his fear of the depths below. But Larson had moved onward and it was time to follow suit, so he did, mimicking the same routine that his companion had completed.

 

***

 

The shimmying had taken a lot out of them; Pierre and Larson had chosen to take another small break to rest their arms and refuel, hastily devouring granola and raisins followed by a swig of water from one of their collection of canteens. Larson, ever the wild spirit, chose to look around a bit while his lover resumed resting.

At the end of the cave appeared to be nothingness. A concave-curved wall with a flat ceiling stretching above. Larson made his best attempt at tossing a fresh flare up high to see if there was a plateau above, something to climb on, but it merely bounced off of the top of the room, the unlit end crashing into his face with an unceremonious  _whump_ , eliciting a  _yeouch!_ from Larson _._  Pierre stood up, making his way toward the scuffle, and asked, “Are you alright?”

At this, Larson grumbled, rubbing his nose absently. “I can’t find nothin’ back here, Boss,” he responded, ignoring the initial question. “Looks like this’s the wrong cave; think we shoulda brought some dynamite?”

Pierre shook his head, taking a moment now to brush the dirt off of his canvas pants. “I think the intel is correct,  _oui,_ but perhaps there was a wrong turn?” Or so he said, but the cavern had no branching paths. Should they have gotten out a rope and climbed down the chasm? Were they intentionally led on a wild goose chase? Could Lara have gotten there before them?

Sighing through his nose, Pierre pushed thoughts of the famous archaeologist-adventurer out of his mind and instead put his flare to the wall, scouring it for a switch or symbol. Anything that looked out of place. On Larson’s end, unfortunately, the cue to search went unnoticed, and instead he went to lean against the wall with brow furrowed, eyes closed, and arms and legs crossed. So deep in thought was he that he neglected to notice the wall shifting behind him. As he leaned in on the pressure pad, Pierre gasped and took two steps back.

Larson noted the change in his companion’s demeanor, and sprang into action behind him, even going so far as to put a hand on the butt of his revolver. Before the pair, the walls opened into a brightly-lit chamber within the cave, walls adorned with oil lamps burning in orange flame since time immemorial. Enormous statues lined either side of the dusty path, standing stoic as guardians of this hidden realm. And at the far end was an altar—a single sunbeam shining down upon a glinting treasure placed within an intricately-carved hand, holding the Ring of Fortuna within its middle finger and thumb.

Whooping for joy, Larson dropped his flare and began sprint toward the ring, all exhaustion seeming to leave him as he closed in on the artifact. Pierre chased after him, intending to yank the cowboy by his red flannel and tell him that the order would be to proceed cautiously. Before he could get a word out, however, they were both stopped in their tracks by a roar from beyond.

In the middle of the room, the tallest statue on the left side had a fog erupt from its eyes. It flexed its massive stone arms as it contorted itself side to side, snaking its head around to see the source of the intrusion. Eyes glowing a demonic red, it fixed its gaze on the treasure hunters and another horrifying roar erupted from it, shaking intensely.

Pierre and Larson had drawn their weapons by now, taking steps back while keeping eyes firmly locked on the magical abomination. The golem freed itself from its stone shackle of the floor, reawakened by foolhardy trespassers after many centuries, and lumbered toward the duo with death in its intentions.

Pierre and Larson immediately assumed battle stance, each wielding his respective guns of choice—dual magnum pistols and the trusty revolver respectively—Pierre began firing away, bullets flying toward the golem’s eyes as it reflexively cringed backward. It gave the pair just enough time to duck behind two of the static statues—Pierre behind one on the right, Larson behind one on the left—and began hand-motioning a battle plan.

Pierre pointed at Larson, who had a scowl and a furrowed brow, and made motions of mock firing with his magnum, then pointed over at the golem, who was listening intently for signs of the men. Mechanically, it took one step forward, stopped, listened, and scanned the area. Time was growing short. Pierre pointed to himself, then, and made a circling motion by moving the barrel of his left magnum pistol in a stirring motion. He widened his eyes and thrust his head forward, mutely asking Larson if he understood. Larson thought for a split second, then nodded, rolling out from behind the statue.

“Hey, Stoneface! Lookee here, it’s a hairy white boy!” Larson shouted, aiming his revolver at the golem’s hand. A guttural noise emerged from the stone menace, as it lumbered toward Larson slowly, and evenly. Larson took a few steps back, and aimed at the monster’s left hand. Firing one, two, three—all six bullets in his revolver’s chamber were now embedded within animated stone. The golem roared and attempted to free its hand of the pain it was in, giving Pierre just enough time to loop around behind the fiend.

On the monster’s back, a diamond-shaped shining sapphire was inlaid, swirling and moving with magics and wizardry of times long past. In all his experience, Pierre knew that was what kept this monstrosity alive and threatening. Running up close, he took aim with both pistols and shot, each bullet striking true.

But they bounced off like hail on concrete; it did nothing to even halt the progress of the monster. Pierre’s face fell as he began to panic, firing faster until his magazines were emptied. As he stared down at his guns in horror, the golem at last discovered the source of its newest anguish and used its good hand to deftly scoop Pierre up by his neck, slamming him into the wall as it pinned him there as his magnums fell to the ground.

As he witnessed the terrifying assault, Larson screamed, “ _GET YER FUCKIN’ HAND OFF MY BOYFRIEND, YA BASTARD!_ ” Sprinting over to the golem and Pierre, he quickly clambered up the golem’s back, eyes catching sight of the sapphire in its resting place. Eyes wide, Pierre tried to shout, to give his lover some sort of instruction on how to defeat this beast. Clinging on harshly, nails digging into the mystically-carved stone, Larson took his pistol and began striking the sapphire furiously with the barrel.

A few seconds passed and it cracked. The golem recoiled in pain, doubling over on itself, and Pierre was released from its grasp as he crashed on the floor, slumping over as he grabbed his throat with one hand and braced himself up with the other.

The golem shrieked inhumanly, the piercing noise filling the entire room and seeming to shake it; the monster rose up with arms in the air, forcing Larson off of it as he plummeted down to the ground below, falling on his back with a loud groan. Reeling from his fall, Larson had no chance to defend himself as the golem’s titanic fists both ascended above its head, preparing to both slam into the helpless cowboy.

A single gunshot cracked like thunder in a still night behind the golem, and the beast froze in place. Pierre, though frazzled and bruised, stood proud as he glared at the dying monstrosity, and spat, “ _Adieu, connard._ ”

The sapphire on its back now had a bullet embedded within it, interrupting the magics and causing the animation spell to cease. Rather than collapse upon the helpless Larson—who was now propping himself up on his elbows as he witnessed the golem’s death throes—it slowly began to disintegrate from head to toe, turning into nothing more than a pile of sand on the floor.

A few seconds went by after the golem’s passing, and Larson quickly turned himself on his right side and braced his left hand on the ground, pushing himself to his feet. He spared no time in rushing over toward Pierre, holstering his revolver along the way. “Boss!” he shouted, “Pierre. Are you hurt at all, baby? Nothin’ broken?” As he asked, he took the initiative to look Pierre over, groping his arms and thighs and listened closely for a reaction. Pierre sighed and shook his head.

“Larson,” he said simply, and took his cowboy’s hand in his. Larson stopped what he was doing and looked up at Pierre as the older man brought their faces together in a kiss. Placing his hands on Larson’s shoulders, Pierre asked, “ _Mon amour,_  are you unharmed? You took a nasty fall—your spine is undamaged?”

Larson nodded. “Yeah, but—you’re OK? I know ya got some nasty bruises at least.”

Pierre rubbed his lips together and replied, “I can walk and I feel whole. Let us get this ring and make our way back to camp.” Holstering one magnum, Pierre picked his other up off the floor and stood on the pathway leading up toward the altar. He offered his hand to Larson and it was accepted gratefully. Hand-in-hand, the treasure hunters walked up to the resting place of the Ring of Fortuna.

It was beautiful; golden, covered in runes and Greek script, and a tastefully-sized topaz was set in the center of the artifact. Larson whistled appreciatively, while Pierre merely stared. Drawing his lips in slightly, his eyes relaxed as they settled on the ring. Larson freed Pierre’s hand from his grasp as Pierre approached the altar, slowly and carefully examining it for traps and hidden devices. Upon verifying that the stone hand was indeed just a holding place for the ring, Pierre carefully put his left index and middle fingers on one side of the ring, his left thumb settling on the other side, and he tugged gently.

The artifact was free. The stone hand now stood bare, and Larson was all too eager to turn around and leave, but Pierre stopped him. Placing a hand on his lover’s shoulder, Pierre said, “Larson, wait. I will not walk out of here without verifying if this is the true Ring of Fortuna.” Larson nodded in response, and Pierre took a few steps back. The pair both took deep breaths and Pierre slipped on the ring. It seemed to fit a little loosely, but it didn’t fall right off, at the very least.

“So, uh…” Larson began, scratching his head, “What, um, what now, Boss?”

Pierre had only a vague idea. You were supposed to offer a prayer to the goddess and, since the ring was purportedly a gift that Fortuna had bestowed upon a particularly unfortunate woman, it would be answered immediately. And so, he wracked his brain for some sort of small fortune the pair might possibly wish for, but was coming up empty.

At last, Pierre came up with an idea and said, “O Goddess Fortuna, my prayer to you is this: give me the fortune of never being harmed once more.” And hastily, he added, “ _S’il vous plait,_ ” for fear of possibly angering the goddess.

Staring into each other’s eyes, Pierre and Larson waited with bated breath. One minute passed, then two. They began to shift about a little uncomfortably and broke their unintentional staring contest, eyes shifting around the room awkwardly.

“Did, um, did anything even happen…? Boss?” Larson asked. In response, Pierre shrugged.

“Perhaps we must test this? Come and pinch me,  _mon amour,_ as hard as you can,” he decided.

Larson gulped. “I, uh, I don’t really like hurtin’ ya much, Boss. You sure you wanna—”

Pierre cut him off impatiently. “Larson, do as you are told for Monsieur,  _oui?_  Pinch me. I will not be angry.”

Larson clicked his tongue, but complied as closed the distance between them again and quickly took hold of Pierre’s cheek between his index finger and thumb, and pinched harshly, twisting a little.

“ _YARGH!”_ shouted Pierre, as he smacked Larson’s hand away.

“H-hey Boss, yer the one who told me to!” replied Larson defensively, backing up and raising his hands in open palms. Pierre rubbed his cheek, taking the ring off and glaring at it.

“Then it is worthless. If there were magics within, they are gone now. Or perhaps there was nothing in the first place,” Pierre stated, punctuating the end of his sentence with a sigh.

Larson groaned in frustration. “That don’t make no sense, though!” he cried, “What the hell was the golem guardin’ then?!”

Pierre shook his head, slipping the ring inside his pocket. As Larson groused and griped, Pierre spied something in the very back of the room that he’d not noticed before; the stone had a vertical crack down the center of it. Saying nothing to his companion, Pierre made his way past the altar toward the crack and started pulling. Confused at first, Larson quickly understood the action and took hold of the other side, the door slowly opening as fresh air mixed in with stagnant.

Lighting a flare, Pierre beckoned Larson to follow him inside. From the light held in Pierre’s hand, the two men could just make out what the golem was truly guarding. A sarcophagus rested within, simple and plain yet carved out of stone to match the rest of the temple. Pierre headed toward it, squatting down next to an inscription along the base of the coffin.

Larson waited pensively in the darkness for Pierre to deliver his findings, and after some gasps and chuckles, he did: “This… is the tomb of a great oracle. It is prophesied she will once again rise to guide humanity, and the golem—it was her guardian.”

Wordlessly, Larson followed Pierre out of the tomb back into the main temple area, perplexment painted across his face. He shook his head, the complexity of the area beyond his understanding. “So… what’s the ring do then? If she’s just gonna be the next President of the World whenever she comes back, are we takin’ somethin’ she’s gonna use?”

Pierre shrugged. “Who can say,  _mon cher?_  I do not know if she will even arise in the first place; this tomb is ages old. The date of her arrival is long past.” Pausing a moment, Pierre took the Ring of Fortuna back out of his pocket and stared at it.

“But my concern lies with the fact that this does nothing. Perhaps Monsieur LaChantel will not be pleased at taking a ring that is surely valuable and ancient, yet has no mystical properties,” he finished.

Larson scoffed, placing his hands on his hips. “I don’t care if that rich git don’t get his magical diamond-studded ring from Tiffany’s to make him richer than he needs. He asked for Fortuna’s Ring, right? We got it. Let’s get the hell outta here,” he said.

Pierre thought for a moment, then nodded, a smile on his lips. “That is what I love about you, Larson—when you have a good idea, it is one for the records,  _non?_ ”

 

***

 

“Sir,” began LaChantel’s most trusted bodyguard, “shall I send someone after them for you? Should we perhaps stop the financial transference?”

Adrian LaChantel was sitting in his office chair again, frowning, eyes glazed as they stared in the general direction he’d thrown the Ring of Fortuna. After delivering it, Pierre Dupont and Larson Conway had quickly absconded from his premises, citing the mission as having been a strenuous one and that they would wish to recover themselves at home. And no sooner than the door having shut behind the two of them did he pray to Fortuna for his monetary fortunes to double—and found that nothing had changed.

But it did appear to be a genuine artifact. He would have to have it appraised, but the treasure hunters’ reputation wasn’t known for swapping their deliveries with fakes. Sighing, LaChantel rolled his gaze over toward his guard, and carefully worded his reply. “They upheld their end of the bargain. As far as my eyes can tell, this  _is_  the Ring of Fortuna, useless though it may be.”

The bodyguard nodded, and headed out the door, sensing his employer was soon going to be in one of his infamous ‘cold and calculated’ moods.

LaChantel’s eyes drew half-lidded, and he shook his head again. Mr. Conway and Mr. Dupont did as asked, walked away with the money, and as for him? Nothing but another shiny bauble in the sea of shiny baubles. “Damn those two…” he muttered under his breath.

 

***

 

Larson smiled contently as he stretched out across the couch, Pierre laying on top of him and holding his hand. Pierre softly stroked his thumb across Larson’s knuckle, the two in a lazy, tight embrace. They were back in Nantes in Pierre’s flat—in  _their_  flat, Pierre insisted, though it was still hard for Larson to wrap his mind around the fact that he had a home in France now—still bruised and battered, but away from the terror and thrill of adventuring.

“It sure is great to be here with you, Boss,” Larson said, pushing himself down into the cushions a bit.

Pierre snuggled in closer to Larson’s chest. “ _Oui, amour,_ ” he replied. “We will take a break from all this for some time, ah?” He shifted his head up slightly, eyes looking up at Larson’s head.

Larson nodded, staring at the ceiling. “Yeah, I sure could go for some time off work,” he confessed.

“Then it is decided,” Pierre stated simply. “Perhaps you can help me find a place in my scrapbook, for the photo I took of the Ring of Fortuna?”

Chuckling, Larson said, “You ‘n yer scrapbook. Yeah, I’ll help. I’d help ya do anything, Boss. But for now—let’s just stay like this?” he asked, looking down and meeting Pierre’s gaze.

“ _Oui, amour,_ ” Pierre repeated. And maybe they’d even have time for a nap.


End file.
